Gentlemen of the Cane
by Pleiadesmemoir
Summary: A Sly narrative, set in Victorian England, revolving around the exploits of "The most Gentlemanly Thief", Thaddeus Winslow Cooper.
1. Prologue

Author's Note: First Chapter of my first Sly Cooper fanfic. Great game; very underappreciated era referenced within it.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sly Cooper, nor any of the plot devices, locations, or characters therein (save o.c. P. Huxley), nor do I own lines referenced from any movie...

* * *

Prologue- Long Awaited Arrival

* * *

A pale mist softly shrouded the glow emanating from the sole second story window of Lotor Street. The night dew clung, almost longingly, to the warped, smoky glass, throwing the lights of the interior oil lamps onto the street below in a diffused fashion. The harsh London wind stirred a subtle fog in alongside this pervasive mist, in effect, drawing a shade over the capital of Britain, shielding her from the prying eyes of the European continent.

If ever there was a time to arrive in the city, then certainly it was this night, so dank and humid, carrying with it the unmistakable putrid odor of the overcrowded Thames. It was upon this such night, on that very river, that the _R.M.S. Montoya_ came to a gentle, aquatic halt. Her crimson, oaken broadside caressed the dock, as a motley array of deckhands nimbly jumped from the deck and began to secure the vessel. The commotion of making port aroused several prying eyes from the few state rooms aboard; portholes were unlatched and the ship's passengers, eager to disembark, clamored for belongings and party members.

One such passenger, of particular interest to the tale in question, stood ready and waiting at his door. Large, leather-bound briefcase in hand, he was garbed in a suit which appeared to have received little attention for some time. Pulling a rather out-of-place pocket-watch from his the confines of his breast pocket, he breathed a relieved sigh. Arrival just as scheduled…satisfaction indeed.

He returned the distinguished watch back to the depths of his wrinkled vest and made ready to leave the dreary state-room for the last time. The gentleman took one last look around, eye-ing the peeling paint, threadbare armchair, and a rug of a rather… distinct odor. Though however much he may not miss the smell…he had to admit that that rug really….tied the room together, one might say.

Withdrawing himself back to the matter at hand, our traveler straightened his coat, made a final adjustment to his hat, and grasped the doorknob, in his firm, coarse grip. Jimmying the bulb, as he had become accustomed to doing on the several weeks journey, he coerced the aperture open, and stepped, readily, onto the _Montoya's_ main deck. The flurry of port activity, though disorienting at first, had become commonplace to this seasoned traveler. He gave a polite, knowing nod, to several of the deckhands with which he had become acquainted on the journey. It was indeed a shame that this would be their final meeting… he had grown fond of several of the crew members.

One such man, whom he counted among his true friends (only three at this time), came toward him, strolling at his normal, rhythmic gate along the deck.

"Percival," shouted the leathery figure from the ship's port side, "I trust that I may 'ave one final chance of convincing you to stay before you make the uncouth decision to leave us 'zis evening?"

An odor always greeted our gentleman's nostrils as first-mate Dimitri spoke in this thick, European mutt of an accent, a smell usually consisting of bottom-shelf vodka, tobacco, and sweat.

Percival responded in his rugged, Scottish baritone, "Aye, Dimitri… Um afraid that business of a different order calls meh 'ere. It's muh callin', yeh see."

Dimitri let out a deflated sigh, and leaned against the outer wall of the stateroom. Pomp and circumstance gone, the first-mate's stomach slipped from its vain restriction, into a more comfortable bulge against his shirt. Fishing a small, ornate snuff box (a familiar sight to all aboard) from his coat pocket, Dimitri spoke with a rare note of finality and sincerity, "Well, then, my friend, I wish you much luck. Like it or not 'Zis is 1840; London 'as changed since you 'ave been abroad, be careful…You're going to meet with 'zis Cooper fellow correct? Can you trust 'im?" He lent his taller friend an inquisitive eye as a large plug of tobacco met his lips.

Percival had to chuckle at this remark, 'Could he trust the Cooper fellow'?

He chose to disregard the inquiry.

"Yeh really ought ta' slow it down with that stuff, mate. It'll ruin your teeth 'un all."

Dimitri merely shrugged and visibly moved the lump over to his other gum. "C'est la vie, friend. It's a delicious pleasure…sometimes it's so good there are barely words… it's almost like a…a- "greasy sweet"…? No matter. You did not answer my question."

At that, a piercing whistle came from the bridge of the _Montoya_, as all but one remaining passenger descended the gangplank.

Dimitri leapt from his position against the wall in surprise. "Ah, dammit Arpeggio!" He spat at his own mention of the Captain's name. "I told 'im to wait another few minutes, for me!" Dejected, Dimitri sighed again and turned back toward his friend.

With a stern, factual look in his eyes, Percival spoke. "Tuh answer yehr question, I'd trust that "Cooper fella'" with muh life. He's 'ad me back so mehny times…U've been teh the ends e' the earth with 'em, an I've a feelin' 'Um about tuh do it again." After he had spoken, Percival wrapped first-mate Dimitri in a hug with room enough for three men. Dimitri said nothing; he didn't have to. The lizard had learned when his friend's resolve would not be overcome.

Gently pulling away, the large gentleman picked up his battered briefcase once more, and began to descend the gangplank. Reaching the bottom, he turned around one last time. His friend's sallow, purple countenance stared him down right back.

"Farewell, Percival Huxley! Until we meet again!" Dimitri yelled, as he waved his cap enthusiastically to and fro.

The _Montoya_ gave a solid lurch, as steam billowed from within its bowels. Dimitri slowly began to move down the length of the Thames.

Percival shouted back, "Until we meet again!" He allowed a small, bittersweet grin to encroach upon his face for a moment as he stood, for what seemed to be the longest time, watching his comrade slowly disappear down the river. Percival stood, until Dimitri was but a purple blot in the distance.

With goodbyes given, and trip handily made, Percival withdrew his watch once more. "Right on schedule," he whispered, as he grabbed the leather case yet again, and began the methodical trudge through the harbor activity, toward the heart of London.


	2. Part I Trials and Tribulations

Author's Note: Part I, installment two of Gentlemen of the Cane. Sincere thanks for the several pieces of positive feedback from the Prologue, it's much appreciated.

Disclaimer: I would be a common thief if I claimed that I owned any part of the Sly Cooper franchise, including characters, locations, plot devices, or themes therein. (I don't)

Part I- Trials and Tribulations

A shadow forcefully fell over the uneven, illuminated cobblestones of Lotor Street later that same, foggy evening. This dark specter (a more common apparition than would be thought, at such an early hour) methodically paced down the neat, although decidedly plain row of Victorian town-homes comprising the district. It wisped and wavered often, following along with the curvatures and imperfections of the miniscule sea of twinkling glass through which soft light poured. Whether it was a window, street lamp, or merely mist-encrusted moonlight reflecting from a downtrodden-looking puddle in the street, the shadow of one Percival C. Huxley was always able to find fodder to feed its existence.

Its source, that is, Huxley the man, walked rather quickly, attempting to match the obscenely loud, almost mocking pace that his own footsteps set against the aging cobblestones of the neighborhood. Percival's breath rose in fierce, bold tufts of condensation, which grew larger every minute he spent searching for Thaddeus's new residence. Home by home sped by him, with house numbers completely encompassing his peripheral vision. "203…205…207" he counted aloud to himself, muttering the successive addresses in barely audible grunts. Rummaging thoroughly in his trouser pocket as he continued along the quaint avenue, Huxley managed to fish a crumpled piece of stationary from its confines. Removing his attention from the dwellings which dominated his surroundings, Percival unfolded the grubby sheet, and gave it a good smoothing over in his palms, just as he had grown accustomed to doing along the extended voyage to London.

This small note happened to be the only piece of correspondence he had ever received from his friend and partner, Thaddeus Cooper; it also happened to be the shortest piece of mail anyone had ever bothered to send him as well… _"Best friends, indeed,"_ he thought, as he gazed down at the blotted, smeared scrawl of black ink that stained the powder-blue paper. No hello, no inquiries as to his well being, no sincerely Thaddeus, no nothing…that is, save for one measly excuse for a sentence, in the direct middle of the page: "_**215 Lotor Street, London, as quickly as you are able**_" A small Cooper family insignia graced the line immediately below…that was all. With a small sigh, Huxley returned his gaze to the homes around him. The sight of a bronze "213" to his left indicated that he had arrived. Turning his large, black and white head in a slight, expectant fashion, Percival had to stop short...there was simply no other option. Sitting between addresses 213 and 217 was… quite simply, nothing at all.

A dank, poorly lit alleyway separated the two town-homes facing him, unabashedly standing by the apparent conundrum it represented. Double-taking abruptly, Percival gave a snort of frustrated dissatisfaction and balled two, large, beefy fists together. He was finding it increasingly more difficult to savor the prospect of an extended stay in London…. If the realization that neither his friend nor the city would make even arrival easy on him had not dawned on him before, then certainly it became obvious now.

Resisting the urge to simply abandon the myriad of red herrings and goose chases he knew were sure to ensue in yet another of his companion's puzzles for the immediate, marginal comfort of an inn, Huxley closed his mellow, black eyes, and took a deep breath…He could figure this out, it was only a matter of time.

And time it took.

Three hours, fourteen trips up and down the alley, six wipes of the brow with his handkerchief, and two inquiries to the owners of the homes next door later, the pale pink glints of the morning sun found Huxley a tired, cold and exceedingly frustrated man. He sat upon the grimy pavement of the alley, leaning against a small wood store, apparently serving house 217. Half asleep and half awake, he faced Lotor Street as it began to awaken and tend to its morning business. Several passersby (proper gentleman by the looks of them) had quite a start at the sight of the impressively large, scruffy-looking badger lying about their neighbors' woodpile. He purposefully paid them no mind, and attempted to rest his tired frame amongst the morning bustle. Eventually, he began to fumble in the inner side of his coat for the silver pocket watch he so prized. Bringing it from his breast pocket rather slowly and clumsily, Percival held the device to his eyes, attempting to escape the glare of the morning rays against the apparatus's face. A loud, detached groan escaped him, as the hands met his gaze…nearly eight A.M. and he was no closer to solving this asinine riddle…No, not even a riddle…more like practical joke.

In a fit of sudden disappointment, Huxley fell limp, letting his arms fall to the cool, rough pavement below. His head lolled back with them, and, as a result, all of his weight fell against the rough grain of the wooden chest behind him. Momentarily immobile and unresponsive, Huxley's head shot up with the rapidity developed from so many years as a professional thief at the sound of a subtle, though still alarming cracking noise. An unexpected shuddering sensation gripped him from his back to his front. Confused for only a second, Huxley gave an uncharacteristic start as the store-box upon which he was leaning suddenly gave way under his impressive weight. Splintered boards as well as fresh-cut logs fell all around him. He lay, motionless for several moments, until the sap-covered multitude of rolling timber came, at last, to a standstill.

Huxley arose, with fire in his eyes, and kicked the wooden planks of the box away with an angered vigor. Barely able to restrain himself from hurling one of the logs as hard as he could for no particular reason, Percival simply put a white-knuckled fist to his lips and began to count. As digits ranged upward in his mind, he felt the anger slowly grow stagnant, and eventually flow from him in a seething stream. He slowly opened two bloodshot black eyes… and seconds later, his mouth. The sight that forced Percival's defined jaw agape was one he had given up on ever finding. Resting, in the bottom of the ruined wood-box, was a manhole cover. The dark metal plate was offset slightly from its position in the bottom of the box, although was apparently unscathed from the recent carnage in every other fashion. Sized to fit the entire length of the box's base, it stood incredibly out of place in its present position. Although, it was admittedly not the cover's size, nor placement which contributed to Percival Huxley's immense delight, rather, the large, intricately detailed Cooper family emblem emblazoned upon its face.

Huxley let his arms fall to his side, and released all the tension accumulated over the past several hours. A smile curled his thin, black lips, and he began a deep throaty chuckle. "Yehr best one yet, mate," he had to concede, as he forced the heavy metal plate from its original indention and began to descend into the black depths of the belly of Britain's capital.


	3. Part II Treacherous Trek

Author's Note: Another chapter...It's been a while, if you're interested here it is. Should hopefully pick up soon *Post reading note*: I know it's 1840, and "The Cask of Amontillado" wasn't published until 1846 (I know how to use Wikipedia, too), but hey, animals are also populating Victorian England...What animal would Poe be? Also, 10 points to anyone who gets the agnosticism joke in the last paragraph

Disclaimer: I do not own Sly Cooper, nor any of the characters, locations, plot devices, etc... therein

* * *

Part II- Treacherous Trek

* * *

Stagnant, murky water lapped at the fine finish of the leather of Huxley's shoes as he trod haphazardly through the myriad of puddles gracing the dank, barren hallway he was met with. The recesses and divots of the cobble beneath his feat allowed nothing short of a torrent of drainage to collect in isolated pockets all around him. Trying very hard to be oblivious of the subtle squelch just beginning to seep into his woolen socks, he ventured probing glances around him.

Percival had descended via the coarse, inlaid iron ladder beneath the manhole cover, with no lack of trepidation. He gingerly tested every rung, one-by-one, rightly distrusting the dated metalwork to support his vast frame. At last, however, he finally left the claustrophobic reaches of the vertical passage, and came into a large, domed landing area, adorned with torches set into all eight faces of its octagonal, red brick walls. He marveled, silently, at the simplistic yet carefully constructed nature of the structure. It was several times larger than his stateroom aboard the Montoya, and, he quipped to himself, about as well furnished. The cavernous room was completely devoid of anything, except, directly opposite from the ladder, he could faintly make out a low tunnel through the gloom, which carried torches of its own, illuminating its depths until it snaked out of sight.

It was in this grim, damp thoroughfare which Huxley was presently navigating. He believed that, though the tunnel carried its own set of rather disturbing, Poe-esque charms, it would be decidedly best for it to end as quickly as possible. Obstinately, however, the path straight out of "The Cask of Amontillado" refused to terminate in any sort of timely manner. One turn after another came and went, with no discernable landmarks or indications. After nearly ten minutes of traversing the winding depths beneath the city, Huxley resigned himself to just be patient and follow the flickering firelight, glinting off the pervasive pools until their ultimate end.

Gruffly shaking some of the moisture from the hem of his trouser leg, Percival took in the sparse scenery that dotted his surroundings. Upon closer inspection, he had come to realize that the torches which he had seen in the landing, and which now lighted the way forward, were not torches at all, but unassuming gas fixtures, similar to the lamps of the street above. He had always delighted in the curious concept of the gas lamp-light, ever since running across them during his travels across the European continent years ago. Though he hadn't the foggiest idea how or why it worked…though, of course, he needn't worry about that, it was Al's area anyway… he couldn't help but feel a little proud of the industriousness of animal-kind upon seeing them. Thaddeus's good tastes hadn't softened a bit, apparently.

After what felt like hours of practically wading through the cloudy fluids of the current Cooper undercroft, a strange sensation overtook Percival as he continued his menial plod along the staccato pavement. Each footfall felt more and more inhibited than the last…they came sooner and sooner yet. Eventually, Huxley began to realize that, astoundingly, he had hit an incline. The pools that had surrounded him grew smaller and smaller with every step, until only the occasional droplet of condensation fell from the arched brick above him, and swerved its way down along the mortar of the cobblestones, not unlike the manner of the tunnel itself. After climbing for several minutes, at long last the path flattened. Sensing the end of the torturous terrain, Percival slowed to a casual but cautious stride, arms slightly tensed at his sides. Huxley kept his guard up, and brought his hands closer into his chest…something about the unassuming stretch of level going left him with a foreboding, suspicious feeling. Right he was to embrace it, too, for out of the twilight ahead, a figure of immense girth loomed. It was impossible to make out through the dimness of the flames and the static mist hanging in the air. Slowly, he took forceful, but amazingly quiet steps, relying on the nimble grace of the balls of his feet to carry him to face whatever test Thaddeus had left in wait for him. As he neared the figure, Percival's gloved fists curled tightly… he admittedly felt a little sorry for whatever his partner had left to watch the entrance to his safe-house. Undoubtedly, if it was on the receiving end of one well-delivered blow from Percival Huxley, well…that would be that, then.

Feeling slightly more confident than muscle ever should, he realized, Huxley began to sprint, almost rocket, toward the mysterious mass. His slender, clawed feet beat against the cobbles with a vengeful force, bringing him ever closer to his opposition. There was no lumbering to his movements; this was mechanical, an exercise…one working with Thaddeus had readied him for. Arms pumping and fists clenched in front of his body, he readied himself for contact. His eyes flashing as they reflected the rapidly passing flames, he reached the thing standing in his way, apparently caught unawares by its opponent. Percival's left fist, already drawn back in a dramatic show of force, sailed through the mist, cutting through the dew on its way to dealing devastation. In the split second between en-action and contact, Percival's eyes sought, located and met the eyes of his resistance….They then betrayed confusion, and fear. By then, though, it was already much too late to halt the attack in progress. It continued, struck and then…nothing. His clawed fist fell limply away from the flesh it had impacted as he made feeble preliminary attempts to grasp the situation at hand.

This, all because of the puzzling fact that the eyes he had met not a second earlier, were thoroughly and definitively shut. And what's more, even after a punch that would have laid the average inhabitant of Lotor Street flat, they remained so closed. Huxley quickly stepped away from the wrinkled mound of flesh and surveyed the scene he had stumbled upon.

Lying before him was the gray, coarse body of a positively enormous bulldog. Its fur was diversely matted and bristled; depending on the region it covered. Its face was mapped with innumerable wrinkles, crisscrossing one another indiscriminately like the threads of a spider web. The animal was at least Huxley's size or larger, which was saying something indeed. However, it wasn't the animal's magnificent features which were of principle concern to Percival. Rather it was the reason why it remained motionless, even after his obscenely obvious approach and crushing punch to the side. He began to work under the assumption that the poor brute was recently deceased, until he noticed that its ill-defined ribcage expanded and contracted with the rhythm carried by deep, undisturbed slumber.

Left with no further explanation, Huxley almost felt ready to simply chalk his escape from the brawl up to divine providence (almost)…until he noticed a peculiar splash of color that dotted the dog's otherwise unremarkable grey coat. Upon unraveling two rolls of the dog's neck fat, Percival discovered the key that tied the incredibly destabilizing situation together: the peculiar color, a vivid neon green, belonged to the feather of the miniature fletching which adorned the rear of a small dart concealed between the flesh. Huxley wanted to chuckle as he rolled the small apparatus between his thick fingers, bare inches in front of his eyes. "'t appears yeh've saved me a bit uh trouble, Allie…what would uh do without yuh?" he spoke, in a soft voice to himself. He flicked the dart from his grasp, down to the cool embrace of the cobble path. With a final, parting glance at the would-be gatekeeper, Percival began to trot, mindfully down the path once more, towards his final destination. And indeed, he did not realize just how much effort he had been spared on this occasion. For if he had bothered to check the site upon which his futile punch had decked the drooling beast, he would have found that barely a mark was left, where so many others had previously fallen to the infamous left hook of Percival Huxley.


End file.
